


placebo

by zeraparker



Series: the one he can't deny [2]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Sleep Deprivation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 00:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19779118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: placebo/pləˈsiːbəʊ/ nouna medicine or procedure prescribed for the psychological benefit to the patient rather than for any physiological effect.Set post-Lemans.Andre forces the corners of his mouth into something that he hopes resembles more a smile than the grimace he fears it is, then pulls his legs out of Jev’s reach. He isn’t hungry, and the promise of more food in the evening, the lavish post-Lemans dinner he’s got invited along to despite not belonging to Jev’s team, not deserving any place at the table, has his stomach already tied in knots. Maybe he can lie down at Jev’s flat, have a nap, actually fall asleep; maybe they won’t have the heart to wake him to drag him along just because Jev insisted, just because no one can say no to Jean-Eric, least of all Andre.





	placebo

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to substitute, but can be read as a standalone.

Setting a simulator session on the Monday morning after Lemans could only have been done by someone who’s never been to Lemans, much less raced there.

Andre feels like Death warmed over, chewed and spit out.

They’d arrived back in Paris late the night before, the four of them sharing a car that had dropped Carl off at his place before driving the couple more streets to Jev’s flat. Lorene had been sleeping against his shoulder by then, but Jev had been just as awake, his body a jittering reflection of Andre’s own exhausted restlessness. Jev had woken her up with a kiss and a gentle hand stroking over her thigh, murmuring quietly to her as the car had pulled up to the curb, and Andre had averted his eyes, had busied himself with leaving the car first, with opening the trunk to retrieve their bags, grabbing all three of them. Jev had thanked him with a sleepy smile, steering Lorene from the car to the door as he’d fished the keys out of his pocket to let them in. The flat had been dark and deserted, only Cheetah greeting them, curiously sniffing at their bags as Andre had dropped them in the hallway, Charlie still with her grandparents waiting for Lorene to pick her up after preschool the next day. They’d said their goodnights in the hallway; Andre had stayed over so often by now that he didn’t need to be shown around the flat, didn’t need to be treated like a guest. It had set the hair at the back of his neck on end, the automatic way he’d slipped out of his sneakers, lining them up neatly next to Lorene’s shoes in the hallway, beneath the coat hooks holding Charlie’s jackets.

The bed in the guest room had lured him in with its freshly made sheets, the dim light of the streetlamps outside filtering in through the gauze curtains drawn in front of the windows. Andre had curled his toes into the rug beneath the bed as he’d stripped off his shirt, tossing it to the side to land on the leather armchair next to the bed. That’s when his breathing had stopped. That’s when his heart skipped a beat. That’s when the memories came crashing back in, past the crumbling walls in his mind: the splay of Jean-Eric’s legs as he’d lounged in the chair, the long line of his throat with his head pushed back, the smudge of his eyelashes against cheeks flushed from alcohol and arousal, the glistening head of his cock trapped in his own fist.

There was no sleep for Andre that night.

They should have just called the sim time off. His laps are rubbish, his concentration shot. It’s good that he isn’t actually piloting a physical car around a real track with barriers only meters away. The shake of the simulator every time he loses control, steers the virtual car off the line and into the tecpro barriers makes his teeth grind, the muscles in his jaw tense. He tries to drown out Fabrizio’s annoyed voice, how he’s trying not to show his exasperation at the data Andre is feeding back into the computers; they should have made Tatiana and James do the Bern simulation to begin with. His own temper is rising, and before long he finds himself lashing out verbally, only two laps later and he’s pulling his gloves off, sending them flying in the direction of the screens. He can just so keep himself from chucking the headphones in the same direction.

He wants to go home. He wants to go to Gordes, unplug his phone and play dead to the world; he wants to go to Seefeld, maybe, make Helmut take him on another hiking trip away from civilisation without the need to talk to anyone, not even each other; he wants to go back to Tokyo, let the busy crowd of the city he loves but never belonged to take him away, drown in it and never come up for air; he wants to turn back time 36 hours, get back into a real car, not a machine that acts as one, wants to feel the vibrations of the engine in every cell of his body, feel the real consequences of losing control, the real crunch of metal and carbon fibre around him, the real tug of gravity on his already tired limbs.

Fabrizio finds him an hour later dozing restlessly in one of the bean bags in the upper lounge area of the factory. He’s brought a cup of coffee, resting it on the small side table within Andre’s reach wordlessly. “Briefing is in an hour.”

Andre rolls his shoulders, picking up the coffee cup slowly. “Jev already done?”

Fabrizio shrugs. “His laps are as rubbish as yours; this isn’t getting us anywhere.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You okay though?”

Andre blows air over the steaming hot coffee, taking a tentative sip, not quite sure what to answer. He shrugs. “Bern is going to be better,” he says, trying to convince himself as much as he can. Berlin has been shit; Lemans had been shittier than they had anticipated. Fifth feels like no result at all. Maybe it would have been better if the car had broken down before nightfall. The disappointment of helplessly driving behind, no way forwards, no fights from anyone behind, fighting with dull weapons, feels even more draining than a proper defeat.

They get briefed for the rest of the week over lunch with the engineers, the information going right over Andre’s head as he pushes the food around with his fork. He startles when he’s kicked under the table, looking up to find Jev grin at him tiredly from the other side of the table, barely stifling a yawn around his forkful of salad. Andre forces the corners of his mouth into something that he hopes resembles more a smile than the grimace he fears it is, then pulls his legs out of Jev’s reach. He isn’t hungry, and the promise of more food in the evening, the lavish post-Lemans dinner he’s got invited along to despite not belonging to Jev’s team, not deserving any place at the table, has his stomach already tied in knots. Maybe he can lie down at Jev’s flat, have a nap, actually fall asleep; maybe they won’t have the heart to wake him to drag him along just because Jev insisted, just because no one can say no to Jean-Eric, least of all Andre.

But Andre’s plans get thwarted again when he finds himself with two arms full of squealing toddler as soon as he enters Jev’s apartment. There’s no use telling Charlie off from dragging him down the hall to her room to show him all the new toys she’s got and the dresses her mum bought her, and he finds he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would as he’s made to sit on the floor and have tea with her dolls. In the evening he watches her model all the dresses she wants to wear to the dinner, trying to give his expert opinion when she twirls in the middle of the room and then runs off to have Lorene do her hair. Before he knows what’s happening they are walking the half an hour walk through the warm Parisian summer evening, her small hand clutched in his as she tells him some story about her friends in preschool he can’t follow, having never heard the names before.

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

Andre looks up from studying the menu. Carl is smiling at him, his arm resting on the back of the empty chair between them, the chair Charlie claimed for herself before Lorene ushered her off to the restrooms before the start of dinner. Tiredness is still clinging to the corners of his eyes, softening his roguish features, the traces of Lemans written into the wrinkles around his eyes, in the shadow of the beard around his jaw.

 _Carl knows_ , Andre thinks, despite never having raced there himself; knows just like Roman and Jev and Job, the same kind of air clinging to him, the stench of petrol and no sleep and hours of anxiety hidden by the darkness of night. It makes his throat constrict, the sudden exposure of someone _knowing_ just like himself, caught off guard. He stares, feeling his breath come out in short gasps. There’s a twitch in the muscles around Carl’s eyes, his forehead contracting into a frown as he opens his mouth, his hand reaching out to touch Andre’s shoulder. But then Charlie comes barrelling back, tugging the chair away from the table to squeeze into the narrow space dislodging Carl’s arm from the backrest. The noise of the restaurant rushes back into Andre’s awareness, and he leans down almost automatically to help Charlie clamber up onto the chair, pushing it close to the table for her to reach the plate set in front of her. Her small body presses into his side warmly as she leans against him, already off on another of her stories, demanding all of Andre’s attention.

He’s grateful for her presence, more and more so the later the evening gets. Her weight is a grounding anchor at his side, the way she almost crawls into his lap from time to time. She’s like a shield, creating a bubble around them that keeps Andre occupied, removing the responsibility of having to follow the conversations around him. He barely notices Jev on his other side, tunes in and out of the ongoings at the table.

“You don’t have to babysit her all night,” Lorene tells him in the break between two courses as she’s standing behind Charlie’s chair, having handed her a tablet with her favourite cartoon, earbuds firmly in the girl’s ears.

“No, it’s fine,” Andre answers genuinely, and Lorene’s eyes turn soft, her smile gentle when she leans down to press a kiss to Charlie’s hair, her fingers stroking along Andre’s shoulder as she walks back around Jev to take her seat on his other side. Andre follows her with his gaze before he looks down only to find Charlie looking up at him with the same warm, dark brown eyes as her mother’s. It takes his breath away anew, unable to look away until she suddenly moves over, pushing herself up to sit in his lap, holding out the tablet for him to watch over her shoulder. Andre wraps his arms around her, feeling her settle comfortably against his chest, and can’t help himself from leaning down, nuzzling her hair, inhaling the strawberry scent of her shampoo, the baby scent of her skin. His eyes are burning, and he hugs her tighter, doesn’t ever want to let her go. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to get a grip on himself.

It only seems natural that Andre would end up carrying Charlie home. She’s deeply asleep, her small face buried against his shoulder, her hands fisted into the collar of his sweatshirt, wearing out the neckline beyond repair, but he doesn’t mind, her slim body the only weight he doesn’t add to the heaviness he’s feeling. It’s almost midnight again, and his mind is crystal sharp with insomnia, the kind of clear that’s distorted like looking through an old windowpane, giving everything around him a weird wobbly tilt. The streets of Paris are empty at this hour on a weekday, the soft voices of their group talking among themselves, goodbyes at every other street corner when more and more of them split off in the distinct directions of their metro stops or homes.

“Do you want to come up for a drink?” Andre can hear Jev ask Carl, both walking behind him as they are nearing the entrance to Jev’s flat. He can feel the hot prickle of Carl’s gaze at the back of his neck for a long second, closes his own eyes to take a steadying breath as he hears Carl answer in the affirmative.

Andre follows Lorene up the stairs, watching her unlock the door to Jev’s apartment with the key dangling from her keyring. He holds Charlie out for her to take off the girl’s sandals. “I’ll put her to bed,” he says quietly, reluctant to let her go just yet.

Lorene smiles softly, leaning in to kiss Charlie’s cheek, hand her unicorn backpack to Andre as well. “Don’t bother undressing her, we don’t want her to wake up.”

Charlie makes a quiet noise of protest when Andre pries her fingers from his shirt collar. He waits with bated breath until she’s settled down again before he lays her on the mattress, making sure one of her plushies is in reach when she stretches in her sleep. It’s warm in the room, the air stale from the hot summer day, and he arranges the thin sheet around her carefully before he cranks open one of the windows, allowing the cooler night air inside. He returns to the bed, kneeling on the floor as he leans against the bedframe, reaching out to caress Charlie’s dark curls gently.

He knows he’s stalling. He doesn’t really want to leave, just keep watching her sleeping peacefully. The exhaustion has turned into a physical pain inside his bones, making his head heavy. Maybe he can manage to sneak away into the guestroom without the others noticing.

Andre pushes himself to his feet with an effort it shouldn’t take for a professional sportsman. He’s glad no one is watching. How many more Lemans will he do? Right now he feels like even one more is one too many. He forces himself not to look back at Charlie again as he leaves her room, closing the door quietly behind himself.

His room is at the other end of the hallway. He can hear Lorene’s voice from the open doorway leading to the kitchen, the light switched on there throwing a rectangle over the floorboards and opposing wall. Andre doesn’t want to join them, his mind made up, but he can’t help turning his head as he walks past, and his steps falter.

Lorene is sitting on the kitchen isle, one of her feet propped up against a bar stool. Jev is standing between her legs, hugging her tightly. His face is hidden against her neck, one of her hands cradling the back of his head, her other slung around his shoulders, drawing him close. She’s talking quietly, her fingers carding through Jev’s hair, the words too quiet for Andre to make out, but whatever it is, it seems to be working. For the first time Jev is missing that restless twitch he’d been carrying all day. It’s mesmerizing. Andre swallows, but his mouth is dry and his throat aches. Then Lorene’s eyes flicker up, her head tilting a little to the side as she keeps talking. She meets Andre’s gaze. It feels like being punched.

He takes a stumbling step backwards, reaching out with his hand to catch himself against the wall, finding the edge of a sideboard. His fingers curl around the wood, aching he clutches it so hard. Fuck. He needs to get away; he needs to go to bed. He’s got no idea what Lorene is seeing, whether everything he ever felt for Jev, everything he’s ever _thought_ is written as clearly across his face as he thinks it must be.

All the longing.

All the what ifs.

All the thoughts he’d never allowed himself to think about anyone else before.

He knows it’s too much power he’s handed to Jev before he even noticed himself, elevating him to something beyond the person Jev actually is, a dream person based on the man he became teammates with, then friends, but so far beyond by now that even if Jev pulled away from Lorene right then and there, even if he’d cross the distance between them right now to declare his undying love, he’d still have no chance to live up to whatever pedestal Andre has already elevated him to in his mind.

He feels lightheaded, short of breath from the racing of his heart. His fingers are tingling, his legs wobbly. He’s got to get away before Jev sees too.

Oh god, Jev mustn’t see.

His vision blurs as he turns around, trying again for the door to the guestroom.

Carl is blocking the hallway, the light from the open bathroom door still ajar behind him throwing his face into shadows.

Fuck. He can’t, he just can’t. He stumbles again, his legs tingling too and making it hard to stay upright, his fingers still clutching the edge of the sideboard somehow unable to let go despite his body moving in a different direction, and he finds the room tilting around him as his shoulder connects with the wall and he slides down along it, huddling into the corner the sideboard makes with the wall. He’s sweating, the fabric of his long-sleeved sweater sticking to his skin constrictively. He’s pulled his knees up against his chest, trying to melt into the wall.

Cool fingers tentatively touch the back of his neck, guiding his head down towards his knees. It’s taking him long moments to realise someone is talking to him over the loud rushing in his ears.

“-got to focus on your breathing, okay? That’s all you need to do right now. Slow down your breathing.”

It goes on like that, a steady drone of calm talking that’s pushing aside the wild buzzing, suddenly making him aware of the rapid panting of his own breath, his mouth hot and dry around the air that’s passing over his lips. He groans, blinking his eyes open only to find his vision blurry and mottled with spots. He can hear the voice praise him, more assuring words filtering through the cotton that seems wrapped around his head. There are other voices too, but he can’t concentrate on them in fear of losing that steadying calm. One of his hands has fallen to the wooden floor, and he feels something chilled and hard pushed against it, shrinking away startled.

“Water. It’s a glass of water for you. You should take a sip, slowly.”

Andre nods, blindly feeling around for the thick-walled glass, clutching it tightly when he finds it, feeling the ridges of the glass press into his skin. It’s cold and damp and heavy as he lifts it to his lips. His head is still bowed down, making it hard to coordinate taking a sip, but he manages somehow, feeling the water spread around his mouth soothingly, the action interrupting the still high frequency of his breathing, and he tentatively takes another sip, then another, cradling the glass in both hands now as he lifts his head to make drinking a little easier. He blinks a couple times, his vision still blurry, but the glass gives him something to focus his eyes on.

“Good. Do you want more? There’s more water here.”

Carl is kneeling on the floor in front of him, a careful foot of distance between them. Andre can see his jeans-clad legs, the hem of his button-down shirt. One of his hands is resting on his thigh, the other is reaching for a bottle on the floor next to him, the plastic cap rolled away. Andre’s hand is shaking when he extends it with the glass for more, unable to meet Carl’s eyes. He can feel his heart picking up speed again, but Carl’s voice distracts him.

“It’s okay. Drink your water. Everything is fine.”

Andre does as he’s told, following Carl’s suggestions the easiest way. He drinks slow sips from the water until the glass is empty, then keeps clutching it tightly in his hand. The smooth planes and hard ridges of the formed glass are endlessly distracting as he follows them with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry.” He licks his lips, still dry despite the water he drank. Embarrassment is creeping along his veins, and he feels himself starting to sweat again. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He drops his head back against the wall, his eyes travelling right past Carl’s face to the ceiling. Tears are burning in his eyes, slipping down his face.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s okay.” Carl falls silent for a long moment, and Andre chances a glance at him, seeing him look to the side contemplatively. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks, and Andre is shaking his head before he’s even finished the question, the idea of being left alone clogging up his throat. His chest is hurting painfully, and he forces himself to take a deep breath, the air feeling too thick to breathe properly, his body overheated. He needs fresh air, oxygen. The cadence of Lorene’s voice reaches his ears, something being called out from the other room, and Andre shrinks away, pressing himself closer into the corner. He’s still clutching the glass in his hand, his knuckles white with how firmly he’s gripping it.

He’s barely able to cope with Carl sitting across from him; he can’t deal with Lorene; he can not at all deal with Jev. He lifts the glass to his face, pressing it against his forehead like that could shield him from anything.

“Do you want to go outside, walk for a bit?” Carl asks, and Andre meets his eyes for the first time, nods.

Carl has just lit his third cigarette when Andre suddenly stops next to him, staring down at the empty water glass he’s carrying, then up and down the street wildly, really taking in his surroundings for the first time since they stepped outside of Jev’s flat about twenty minutes ago.

Carl waits, trying to figure out in what direction Andre’s thoughts have run now. Fuck, he wishes he knew more about the man next to him. Andre is still a book with seven seals, despite how much time they’d spent together over the past year, despite how close they’ve become. This had been so much easier with Jev, all the times Jev had become to rely on him when things had gone bad, when things had gone even beyond that. He and Jev had been friends for years by then, Carl had been around to watch his gradual decline into the self-destructive spiral that had almost cost him his career; he should have stepped in much earlier back then, it’s a thought that still haunts him sometimes. But he’s got no such pointers with Andre.

“I’m sorry,” Andre says, the only words he seems to be able to say since Carl had found him crumbling in the hallway earlier. He holds up the glass, unsure what to do with it.

Carl shakes his head. “It’s fine, don’t worry. We’ll just take it back.” He watches closely what his words are doing to Andre, seeing the nervous twitch of his jaw muscles, the way his breathing picks up again. “Do you want to go back?”

“No, please,” Andre whispers after a moment, his eyes unsure. He reaches up carding his fingers through his messed-up hair.

“That’s okay,” Carl tells him, biting his own cheek. He should have seen that coming. “You can come to my place if you want, okay?” He looks at Andre steadily, trying to catch and hold his flickering gaze, transmit the sincerity he feels.

Andre stares down at the glass in his hand again. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his mind stuck in a loop.

“It’s fine. It’s all okay,” Carl tells him. He lifts his hand, taking a drag from the cigarette he’d almost forgotten about, then holds it out to Andre, trying to distract him. “Here. Come on, let’s go.” Andre takes the cigarette without protest, his eyes closing when he inhales the smoke, falling quietly into pace next to Carl as he sets off down the street again, a target now to their so far aimless walking.

It takes them about fifteen minutes to reach Carl’s place.

“How about you go sit on the couch?” Carl suggests as he switches on the light inside the hallway, walking across to the living room to switch on the lamps on the side tables either side of the couch, a softer, warmer light than the glare of the large chandelier in the middle of the room. Andre follows the order, dropping down heavily onto the squashy cushions. He toes off his shoes, pulling his feet up alongside himself as he leans against the backrest, his eyes closing almost immediately. Carl looks at him for a long moment. Despite the warm glow of the lamps his skin still looks ashen, dark circles under his eyes. The reddish patch of skin on his cheek and along his forehead is standing out starkly, irritated by the tears he’d rubbed away earlier. It seems almost impossible to align this version of him with the otherwise glowing, self-confident racing driver he’d been introduced to almost two years ago now, but Carl had seen it shimmer through the cracks in his composure months ago, had watched them widen over time. He clenches his jaw, turns away.

In the kitchen he takes two glasses from the cabinet, then opens the fridge. There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer. He adds a generous splash to one of the glasses, taking a sip straight from the bottle before he returns it to the freezer, before topping both glasses off with orange juice.

“Here.”

Andre opens his eyes when Carl hands him the glass, taking a careful sip of the sweet juice, his eyes following Carl as he sits down on the other end of the couch, unsure how much space Andre still needs. Fuck. Every cell in his body is yearning to reach out, to draw Andre into his arms and hold him, shield him bodily from whatever is scratching at his mental walls. But he knows to be careful too; caring for Jev, seeing all his mental ups and downs and the way he could lash out without a second’s warning are making him weary. And fuck, he’s exhausted too. He can feel his own composure brittle like spun sugar around himself.

In the end, it’s Andre that scoots a little closer, his lip worried between his teeth as he closes the foot of distance between them. He rests his head gingerly against Carl’s shoulder, their arms pressed along each other, thighs touching. Carl exhales, then throws back the rest of his drink before he reaches out for Andre’s hand, drawing it into his lap. His own fingers are cold and damp from the condensation on the glass, cool against Andre’s hot skin as he interlaces their fingers, stroking over his knuckles with a fingertip of his other hand.

They sit like that for a long time. Carl can feel the tension gradually drain from Andre’s body as he’s more and more slumping against him by degrees. His own eyes feel heavy and he finds himself closing them for longer periods of time. He almost dozes off, finding himself startled awake by a twitch of his own leg.

“We should go to bed,” he says. His voice sounds too loud in the quiet apartment. He cranes his neck to look at Andre, finding him stare back through eyes heavy with exhaustion, his face tilted up from where he’s still slumped against Carl’s side, and he’s reminded of the last time they sat like this, naked in bed in Jev’s apartment on a grey Parisian morning, the scent of smoke curling around them a memory like the stale smoke that’s clinging to them from the cigarettes they had on the way over now, their kisses then, their touches, the feel of Andre’s weight heavy and real in his lap, the tight heat of his body. It sizes him with a sweet ache.

“There is a guest bedroom if you want space,” Carl says, gesturing down the hallway, but Andre just squeezes his hand, making no sign of letting go any time soon, so Carl doesn’t argue, glad to lead him to his bedroom and have him close. Leaving Andre with a spare toothbrush still sealed in its crinkly plastic wrap in the bathroom adjoining the master bedroom, Carl opens the windows, allowing the cool night air inside. It’s quiet outside, not even the sound of faraway traffic. He stands at the open window for a long moment, just breathing in the air, bracing himself against the windowsill. With a sigh, he turns away from it, starting to unbutton his shirt. Fuck, he’s tired. He drops his shirt over the back of a chair in the corner of the room, then returns to the bedside table to empty his pockets of his wallet and phone. He stares at the display for a second, unlocking it to scan through the row of messages accumulated over the last hour, most from Lorene, asking whether they’d return, then another dated only a couple minutes ago voicing her assumption they’d gone to his place. Carl answers that to ease her mind, ignoring the message Jev sent demanding they’d talk. That’s got to wait until he’s more awake, until he knows how to deal with Andre.

Arms encircle his waist, making the phone clatter onto the bedside table when Carl drops it startled. He straightens, feeling the soft fabric of Andre’s sweater as he presses himself against Carl’s naked back, the rasp of stubble against his shoulder as Andre mouths at his shoulder. Carl turns in the lose circle of Andre’s arms, catching his eyes and then leans in for the kiss he knows Andre is waiting for. He means to keep it chaste, a soft press of lips in reassurance, but Andre opens his mouth invitingly, and fuck, he’s only human. He licks into Andre’s mouth slowly, feeling him go pliant in their embrace, raw and open. His hands go to the hem of Andre’s sweater, pulling the fabric up over his chest, slipping his arms out of the sleeves one after the other until the sweater is hanging around his neck like a shapeless scarf. He leans away, breaking the kiss to reach up and pull the sweater over Andre’s head, tossing it aside.

Andre is watching him through slumberous eyes, his fingers curling around the waistline of Carl’s jeans, digging beneath the fabric, holding on, holding him close as Carl has half a mind to step away, end this where they are. It’s the reasonable thing to do. A breeze from the open window strokes across their naked chests, setting off a thin sheen of goosebumps along Andre’s collarbone that draws Carl’s eyes, and he can’t help himself as he leans back in to chase it with his lips, tasting the salty residue of cold sweat on Andre’s skin. Andre exhales shakily, reaching up to tangle the fingers of one hand into Carl’s hair to hold him close, and Carl bites at his skin, drawing it into his mouth to worry a bruise into it.

“More, please.”

The words fall from Andre’s lips as a breathy whisper, his voice thick and shaking. His hold on Carl’s hair is weak enough that Carl can easily lift his head, regarding Andre for a long moment. Andre opens his eyes to stare back, defiance and need and the same fragility he’s been carrying all day warring in his eyes as he leans in, offering himself up to be kissed again. Carl answers almost helplessly, licking into Andre’s mouth, wrapping his arms around Andre’s naked torso to hold him close. Andre’s fingers sneak around the waistline of his jeans to the front. He groans when Andre undoes the belt buckle and button, sliding down the zipper and then his hand into the confines of Carl’s jeans, cupping his cock through the fabric of his underwear.

“Fuck, Andre, don’t,” Carl murmurs, even as his hips roll forwards slightly into the warm, firm grasp of Andre’s hand, feeling his cock become half hard at the touch. He doesn’t even really want to, not with how heavy his whole body feels, the thought of an orgasm not really holding any lure.

“Please,” Andre begs, his fingers pushing at the fabric of Carl’s jeans, pushing them and his underwear down over his hips to slide to the floor. “Please, this isn’t enough.” He leans in, hiding his face against Carl’s neck, his breath hot and wet against Carl’s skin.

Carl takes a step to the side, freeing his feet from the bundle of cloth around them. He strokes over the back of Andre’s neck, through the short hair at his nape, then takes another step towards the bed, pushing until Andre bumps against it with the back of his legs. He guides Andre to sit down, his hands lingering first at Andre’s shoulders, then he leans down to cup Andre’s cheeks with both hands, lifting his face for another slow kiss. “Lie down.”

Andre does as he’s told, scooting backwards on the mattress. His hands go to his own belt undoing his jeans clumsily. Carl waits until he’s done before he bends down to lift one of Andre’s feet, tugging first the sock off before grasping the hem of his jeans. He repeats the progress on the other leg, until the jeans join the heap of discarded clothes on the floor. It leaves Andre in nothing but the black, clingy briefs he prefers, his hand already reaching out for Carl again. Carl gives in, crawls onto the bed on top of Andre’s body, leaning down to lick at his mouth, kissing him deeply.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, feeling the unhappy little noise Andre makes against his lips more than he hears it. He kisses Andre before he sits back, then clambers off the bed. He can feel Andre’s eyes on his naked back as he crosses the room for the bathroom, switching on the light there to root through the cabinet under the sink for supplies.

It doesn’t even take him a minute, but when he returns to the bedroom, Andre’s eyes are closed, the previously tense splay of his body relaxed as his chest rises and falls with steady, slow breaths.

Carl freezes, just staring down at Andre. Sleep makes his face look younger, softer, erasing a decade from his features. The halflight in the room hides the grey at his temples. He isn’t smiling in his sleep, but his face has relaxed just so. Carl drops the items he’d brought from the bathroom onto the bedside table and kneels by the side of the bed. Andre’s cheek feels gritty and hot from crying earlier, and he makes a quiet noise, unconsciously moving into the caress Carl doesn’t dare to make any more than the feather light touch it is in fear of waking him. He can feel his heart constrict, his throat clog up and he sits back, running his hand through his hair to get a grip on himself.

Fuck, he needs sleep before his mind runs riot. Carl gets to his feet and carefully drags the sheet from beneath Andre’s prone body to spread it across him. He switches off the lights, toeing off his socks as he walks across the room to close the window. The bed dips under his weight as he slides beneath the sheet, moving to the centre of the bed. He can’t help himself; it should be too warm for the necessity to share body heat, but Carl can’t keep his hands away from Andre’s body, the need he’d felt to hold him coming back. He moves against Andre’s side, resting his head on Andre’s shoulder and slings his arm across Andre’s chest, listening for the steady beat of his heart and only closing his eyes once he’s found it, following him into sleep barely a minute later.


End file.
